


Hell is never getting to say you're sorry

by ununoriginal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-02
Updated: 2002-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununoriginal/pseuds/ununoriginal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I hope you'll end up in hell, Malfoy!"... "You're wrong, Potter. I'm already there. Hell is never getting to say you're sorry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's falling, and he is not afraid.

_*Ron*_

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

I can’t do this anymore. 

God, I’m so tired.  So so tired.  Always exhausted, teetering along the fine line between wakefulness and unconsciousness.  It doesn’t matter if I’ve blacked out for fourteen hours straight.  When I open my eyes again, I’m plunged once again into the blur that’s become my existence. 

My existence for… for as long as I seem to remember. 

No, that’s not exactly true.  There’re some vague recollections of a time when I was alive and vibrant, joyful and passionate.  I was tired then too, but it was a lethargy born of late nights up, talking and plotting, sneaking around in the dark in the name of friendship and good…  I loved and hated, I laughed and cried – I FELT and experienced, with all of my being. 

Thinking about it seems to spark something in me for a bit.  I can feel the corners of my mouth twitch a little, as if trying to pay a nostalgic tribute to those days long past.  The embers in my mind have stirred and reddened, glowing slightly, that is, until I glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. 

The ashes settle and I reach out a trembling hand to touch the smooth surface, tracing the outline of the gaunt image reflected within. 

Is that really me?  A face that’s grown far too thin and haggard, cheekbones too defined.  

Is that what they see in me?  Skin that’s lost its glow of health, bleached of everything save its ghastly pallor. 

Is this what draws them?  Eyes so lifeless, the colours gone murky, never ever expressing anything anymore, for their owner has nothing left within him to release. 

Is this what makes them stay?  Hair of flame dulled to tarnished copper, its sheen long gone. 

Is this really me? 

I close my eyes and for an instant I see a different likeness.  I see myself younger and healthy, carefree, with no worries… happy. 

But it’s really… beyond me now.  I’ve been leached slowly, over the days, months, years, steadily and inexorably drained. 

And this is what is left.  All the clichés apply.  An empty husk, a hollow shell, the walking dead, a zombie…  A Dementor could reach out and enfold me in its icy embrace and bestow me with its soul-stealing kiss and there would be no difference.  I have nothing left for them to take. 

But maybe, there might still be a difference.  At least then I wouldn’t be aware of how empty I was.  Then I would BE a hollow husk, instead of just feeling like one. 

It would be nice if one of them just drifted by right now.  Save me the trouble for going through all the preparations.  But since I’d have to go all the way to Azkaban to find one, I’ll settle on the lesser of two evils. 

All the ingredients and materials that I need have been laid out before me.  I roll up my sleeves as I begin to gather the required amounts together to drop into the crystal pitcher I’ve bought especially for this purpose.  The concoction starts to bubble and steam the moment the different elements come together.  And then all I have to do is knock is back and chant the simple phrase. 

It’s almost too easy.  But I’ve once heard that the simplest things are also the deadliest – all too fatal in the intensity of their purity.  That is why the deepest secrets of the Dark Arts are so closely guarded.  Anyone could perform a curse or hex, given enough inclination and determination. 

The _Avada Kedavra_ works on this principle.  The fact that you HATE the object of your curse, with every fibre of your being, energises the dark magic woven into the words of the spell.  Dark wizards wield it so much more effectively than the average magic-user because they harbour so much resentment and ill-will against the people and the world. 

The spell I’m about to perform shares similar roots with _Avada Kedavra_ , but the energy resultant, instead of striking a victim, is reversed and internally focused, annihilating the caster himself. 

It’s a curse that’s rarely heard of: there’re much easier ways to get rid of oneself, even if you’re a wizard.  But it wouldn’t have the same impact.  It wouldn’t make as much sense to my weary, twisted mind if I were to depart this mortal coil in any other way. 

This is the only method I can think of to let them see, to let them know what demons claw in my head.  They would not understand otherwise. 

I can only hope that they’ll forgive me, once the shock wears off and comprehension sets in.  How I would love to see, for once, all of them together in the same room, peacefully.  Maybe what I’m about to do will accomplish that.  Only I’ll never be able to confirm it with my living eyes.  And if it fails, well, I still won’t be here to witness it, would I? 

It’s time.  I can feel it.  I can feel it, with a bone-deep clarity.  The very air hums with it – _thanatos_ , the energy of death, vibrating with tension, ready at the slightest moment to spring forth, and engulf its summoner in a life-draining vortex. 

The potion changes colour as I add in one item after the next – traversing the entire spectrum, from it’s original colourless, to yellow, orange, pink, brown, mauve, aqueous blue, deep indigo, royal purple, silver, until finally, with the last sprinkling of powdered asphodel, it settles on a bright, luminous green.  The colour of life. 

Snape would have been proud of me. 

I lift the pitcher and close my eyes, the words of the spell flaring behind my eyelids the same instant they fall unerringly from my lips, emerald letters limned in blood. 

When I look upon the potion again, it has undergone its final transformation.  Now it appears almost oily – black, with sickly streaks of crimson roiling through it. 

I feel myself shudder, but I can no longer be sure if it’s out of trepidation or anticipation.  The potion slides down my throat in one gulp. 

And then… 

And then – I don’t feel anything. 

I had thought it would be more of a blast than this. 

And then I’m falling.  

In the distance, there’s the tinkle of splintering crystal as it hits the floor.  But I’m dropping much swifter than that, receding into a place beyond any I’ve ever been before. 

I glimpse a flash of brown hair, wild and untameable except by magic, as I soar past.  I want to reach out and stroke it in farewell, but I don’t know where my hands are anymore. 

Over there to my right – jade.  Jade green eyes, black hair.  Green eyes widening in… horrified recognition?  Can they see me?  Can they see me as I am now?  

It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing matters now, except I’m tumbling headlong through this vast, endless space.  Falling, falling straight into strong arms.  Firm, familiar embrace.  Silver eyes.  Blond hair. 

And I am not afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were all so much happier back then.

_*Ginny*_

She stumbled blearily into the kitchen, sinking heavily into the chair and clutching the waiting mug of coffee upon the dining table as if it were a lifeline. Deciding to keep her eyes scrunched shut for a few moments more, she gulped down the liquid desperately before setting her mug back down with a thunk on the wooden surface, her head following a close second later. 

Amused laughter managed to pierce through her haze of exhaustion. “Someone’s chirpy this morning!” The bright voice seemed to cruelly grate upon her ears. She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder. Morning people deserved to be rounded up and kept under lock and key, far, far away from those whose life mission was to skip that time of day altogether. 

“Don’t, Hermione. Just… don’t.” It wasn’t even funny, this early in the day. Rarely anything was. She forced her eyes open to mock-glare at the brunette sitting opposite her, going through the morning paper as she finished up her breakfast. Hermione was already dressed and groomed, hair smooth and glossy with a Hair-Taming charm, looking like she had been up hours ago, which, knowing her, Ginny thought morosely, was probably the case. Ugh, morning people! 

“It IS already half-past eight, you know,” Hermione replied, unaffected in the least by Ginny’s foul morning mood. Having spent the past year as flatmates, they’d already gotten used to each other’s routines. “And if it were not for the fact that I start late on Tuesdays, you wouldn’t even be sitting here drinking that life-saving mug of coffee. A little show of gratitude would be nice.” She cleared her plates, bringing them over to the sink. 

“Fine, fine,” Ginny conceded grouchily. “Thanks so much, oh great one!” But the caffeine was already beginning to take effect, and she was now able to sit up straighter in her chair and view the world with a functioning mind. 

“Ginny, dear, you do realise that once you start work, there’s not going to be much possibility for you to sleep late anymore,” Hermione pointed out, starting the thread of an old argument they’d gone over countless times. 

“All the more then that I should do it when I still have the chance,” Ginny shot back, the words almost automatic by now. She was studying to be a medi-wizard, determined to play a part in the up-coming war against Voldemort. There was not much chance of her playing a more active, combative role, she mused, recalling her grades at Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. But she’d found her calling in her 5th year, when they’d begun study on the Healing Magics. So she had decided to train in the magical art of medicine – if she was not to fight the Dark Lord and his minions directly, at least she could keep alive and whole as many of those who could. 

“I tremble to think of the poor people who will come under your care.” But it was said without malice, a long-running joke between them. 

“Well, don’t expect me to lift a hand then when you come back cursed with whiskers and a tail again.” Ginny rose as well, surrendering her mug to the other woman at the sink. 

“Touché. That wasn’t bad at all, considering how early it must be for you.” Hermione grinned at her as she dried her hands and removed the apron she was wearing over her blouse and skirt. “Right, I’ll be going now. Remember to lock the door when you leave later.” 

Ginny murmured an assent as Hermione picked up her bag and jacket, ready to leave. “Whoops, almost forgot my badge!” Dropping her things on the table, she ran into her room to get the missing item. She re-emerged a minute later, the gold and silver crest of the Gringotts crest glinting as the light struck it. 

Ginny smiled at the thought of Hermione working in Gringotts, training to become a curse-breaker, just like Ginny’s oldest brother Bill. Everyone had been pretty surprised when she had made that announcement one evening when she was spending her vacation in the Burrow. Of course, it was not that she couldn’t have done it – Hermione could achieve about anything she wanted, as long she put her mind to it. Most of them had expected her to go into magical research or something similar, considering her thirst for knowledge, but she had launched into a convoluted, though enthusiastic, explanation involving ‘hackers’, ‘computers’, ‘the Internet’, a ‘neuromancer’, some guy called William Gibson and a witch named Willow. 

Harry, who was spending his holidays at the Burrow as well, had raised an eyebrow at the mention of the last name. “Hmm, I had no idea you watched television, Herm, much less ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’.” 

Hermione, though flushed, had self-righteously defended herself and her beloved ‘TV drama’, before the whole discussion was sidetracked by Ginny’s father, who insisted on a detailed description of the computer, the gadget that seemed to govern the entire Muggle world. 

Memories of that evening brought another person to mind as well, and Ginny’s smile turned wistful as she thought of her first love, or crush – Harry Potter. The intervening years had revealed it to be the infatuation it was, coupled with a heavy dose of hero worship, but at certain times, even now, her heart would feel a twinge at the thought of him. 

Harry wasn’t as lucky as Hermione – he didn’t have the luxury of choice when it came to his future vocation, not really. 

“Dumbledore asked me if I could train as an Auror. He says we desperately need more people to join in the fight. I’ll be part of the main strike-force involved in fighting the Death-Eaters, if there’s ever such a confrontation.” There had been a lull in the chatter around the table as the undeniable reality sank in. All of them present were perfectly aware of what was left unsaid in Harry’s words. When – _when_ , not if – the day came, Harry would be their greatest hope, the one with best likelihood of facing the Dark Lord and emerging victorious. 

Ginny’s heart ached as the image of Harry’s face that night rose in her mind, resolute yet blank of much else. He would have played Quidditch, she thought sadly, if he had the choice, and he would have been brilliant. Now, he could still fly, yes, but it was a flight burdened with too much, the hopes and dreams of too many, a destiny too immense for one. 

And so she had made up her mind that she would help, in every little way possible, to ease Harry’s load – his and the load of those other fighters who had sacrificed their own dreams and ambitions as well, for the sake of a better future. 

Once again, Ginny railed at the injustice of the whole situation. She didn’t like the wizarding world the way it was now, tense, over-reacting at the slightest hint of dissension or uprising. Born after Voldemort’s first defeat, she had grown up hearing the stories, but they had never made their impact.You never truly know what it’s like to be restricted, caged in, she realised, until the time comes when you are no longer free. 

Ginny made her way to the living room, flopping down on the couch, her eyes drawn to the framed photographs Hermione had arranged on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Younger-looking images of Hermione, Harry and Ron waved vigorously from out of the snapshots, grinning cheekily, like they had just come back from one of their secret adventures, which would really not have been too far from the truth, Ginny acknowledged wryly. 

We were all so much happier back then, she reflected.It was safer, at least for most of the students at Hogwarts. Harry was an exception, battling Lord Voldemort on a yearly basis, as was Ron and Hermione, unwilling to let their best friend face the danger alone. And even that stopped after Harry’s sixth year. 

Voldemort’s plots and the Death-Eater attacks diminished, but instead of feeling relieved, Dumbledore and the Ministry grew even more concerned. The Dark Lord was planning something – he was mustering his forces. When next he appeared, the battle would be upon them. Preparations were feverishly begun, racing against time, against the day the assault would come. The months and years passed, and they waited, never doubting that the day of reckoning would arrive. And in the waiting, it seemed like they had forgotten how to laugh, how to smile. 

We were all so much happier back then… Harry. Hermione. _Ron_. 

Ginny could feel a frown forming upon her brow as she stared at the picture of her youngest brother, one who used to be so close to her. _What happened, Ron?_ She could sense the puzzlement that now always accompanied thoughts of him unfurl in her mind. Ron had started to drift from her in his final year – admittedly, he never really spent that much time with her in the first place, but he would always look out for her whenever he thought she was feeling unhappy, surprisingly sensitive to her needs. 

That had changed in his seventh year. Ron grew distracted, preoccupied. And he began to laugh less and less. When he did grin, it seemed half-hearted at best. It was as if the vibrancy that was so much a part of him was waning. Ginny could only recollect one other time he had appeared to be in a similar state, during the Triwizard tournament in his and Harry’s fourth year, when they had had their first major falling-out. 

But they had never fought like that ever again after that, at least, not to Ginny’s knowledge. And Ron just continued to fade, growing distant, not only from her, but from the others in his family as well. He had moved out of the Burrow soon after graduating from Hogwarts, declaring his intention to go live in London, but never specifying which part. Hermione and Harry seemed to be the only ones who could still get through to him, the only ones who were aware of what was going on in his life. Ginny suspected they knew far more than they were letting on, and it pained her that she had to get information about her own brother from others whom, although she loved and respected very much, were not truly family. 

She wasn’t even very sure what Ron was doing now. She had a vague idea it was in some department in the Ministry, but far removed from Percy’s and her father’s, such that they couldn’t really keep track of him. Hermione probably knew, Ginny thought irrationally, frown becoming a full-fledged pout, but she was just not telling. 

Ginny sighed, tearing her gaze away from Ron’s beaming picture before she could feel the familiar prickle behind her eyes again. The guilt gnawed at her, for not making more of an effort to look for Ron, for hiding behind schoolwork, medical training, the impending war. Flimsy excuses which would not stand up to the slightest breeze.

_What pathetic lives we lead…_

“Ginny, you okay?” A concerned hand fell on her shoulder, and she glanced up, drawn from her brooding, to meet Hermione’s brown eyes. “You looked really depressed there all of a sudden.” 

“It’s nothing, Herm. I was just thinking about Ron…” She thought she did rather well, managing to keep the tremor out of her voice. 

“Oh.” A shadow passed over her flatmate’s face. She patted Ginny’s shoulder awkwardly. “He’s fine, Ginny. And he sends his love.” Both of them ignored the fact that Hermione’s smile faltered, never reaching her eyes. 

“Did he?” Ginny muttered bitterly, berating herself even as she raised her doubts. 

“Ginny, please! We’ve been over this – Ron really does care for all of you, it’s just that—” 

Whatever defence Hermione was about to make on the behalf of her best friend was never to be heard as she practically toppled over the back of the couch, landing in an inelegant heap on the seat. Ginny stared in shock for an instant before her medical training kicked in, and she swiftly scooted closer to the unconscious woman, skimming her hands across Hermione’s body, trying to get a sense of her aura. 

There was nothing wrong. 

Mystified at this sudden turn of events, she grabbed Hermione’s shoulders, giving her a shake. “Come on, Hermione. Wake up!” A sudden bolt of cold shot up her arms, causing her to shiver involuntarily. She promptly let go, sitting back, but the chill didn’t go away, instead settling in her heart. She had felt such ice before, years ago, and it was something she would never forget. Traces of the dark arts were lingering over the brunette lying in front of her. 

What on earth was going on?! 

“Oh god, NO!!” As abruptly as she had fainted, Hermione jerked out of her blackout, heaving great gulps of air as she sat upright, a hand pressed over her heart, the other clutching the back of the couch. She looked frantic, muttering anxiously under her breath. “No… no… I’ve got to get Harry…We have to hurry…Nonono…” She seemed to have forgotten that Ginny was still there. 

Alarmed, Ginny grasped Hermione’s hand, trying to get her attention. “Hermione, what’s wrong?! Did you see something?” It sounded far-fetched, that Hermione might have Seen a vision, so against Divination and the Sight she was, but it was the most plausible reason she could come up with. The only other explanation was too terrifying to think about.

Hermione shook off her hold, eyes wild. “No, you don’t understand! I’ve got to get Harry, we have to get to him, before it’s too late!” 

“Who? Get to who? Before what’s too late?!” She had never seen Hermione so agitated before. 

Just then, there was a loud, rapid pounding at the window. Which was impossible, it struck Ginny, since they were on the sixth floor, and there was no balcony, unless… She spun around to see Harry on his Firebolt, banging on the glass as if his life depended on it. 

“Harry?!” The surrealism of the whole situation kept Ginny frozen as Hermione jumped up and dashed to the window, opening it and climbing onto the broomstick behind Harry. 

“Wait!” She managed to shout, stumbling to the window, before they could fly away. “What’s happening? Where are you going?!” 

The desperation in Hermione’s eyes as she looked over her shoulder at Ginny made Ginny’s heart twist in sudden forboding. “It’s… it… oh god, I’m so sorry, Ginny… it’s Ron! And I can’t explain anymore now, you wouldn’t understand… just… I’m so, so sorry…” 

Ginny’s legs felt as if they couldn’t support her anymore as she watched the two of them recede into the distance, disappearing around another building. She grabbed the windowsill to steady herself, but try as she might, she could not stop the trembling. One of her worst fears was coming to past, something she’d never wanted to think about, spent so much time denying. 

She slowly slid to the floor, her hands coming together as she prayed, “Please, Ron, please be alright. Please…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were too late, weren't they?

_*Hermione*_

I cling tightly to Harry as he whizzes past the buildings, cutting corners that would have been much too close for my comfort, if it had been under any other circumstances.

But if it had been any other circumstances, I highly doubt I would be sitting behind him on a broomstick, a hundred feet above the ground, flying in plain sight for the Muggle world to see. We're probably in violation of at least fifty Muggle Protection Laws and whatnot imposed by the Ministry of Magic. Yet we could be breaking a thousand and I still wouldn't be able to bring myself to care.

I would be urging Harry to go even faster, if I hadn't already known he was pushing the very limits. My stomach churns as I glance down at the ground speeding by, an indistinguishable mass of grey with occasional flecks of colour. But my insides are roiling with more than mere airsickness. There's a knot that's twisting inside me – it's winding up tighter and tighter and tighter, with no relief in sight. And I'm afraid, so afraid that the relief will never come.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the images assault me again. Copper-red hair, eyes gleaming a dull blue, skin so white it's beyond pale, all plummeting, plummeting to a depth that seems to be out of my reach, out of anybody's reach.

Oh, Ron, what have you done?

It's one of my greatest fears, ultimately coming to past. I've tried to push it away, desperately tried not think about it, but now, I just regret it. Remorse pounds with every beat of my heart. I should have done it – so many chances were given to me when I COULD have done it, forced him to stop, to break away, but I didn't. I didn't.

Stupid foolish woman, why didn't you pull him away so many years ago? How did you stand aside and let him walk into the flames?

A little voice at the back of my head chooses the worst moment to speak up: _Because he was so happy then. He seemed so happy then. And it was something… something wonderful, beautiful… almost perfect. Even though it broke my heart._

I knew, from the very start, before anyone else, except the two in question. Ron had been disappearing by himself increasingly often during that period of his cold war with Harry when the Triwizard tournament came to Hogwarts. Even though homework and trying to help Harry out for his trials took up much of my time, I was worried about Ron. He had never been so distant from us, Harry and I, in the three years we'd been together – and I was positive his isolation wasn't doing him any good as well.

I decided to follow him as he stepped out of the portrait hole that day, heading onto the Hogwarts grounds near the lake, intending to confront him and persuade him to talk to Harry and patch things up. Preoccupied with my thoughts, I lost sight of him as he quickened his pace.

I found him, eventually. He was lying on the ground, half-hidden behind a stand of weeping willows near the lakeshore, the flash of his crimson head unmistakable. And he was not alone.

I realised I loved him in that moment. Loved him, not in the way a friend loves another, or a sister loves a brother. I realised I had loved him for a long, long time. And it took seeing him in the arms of another to jolt me to that conclusion.

And what an other! I could hardly believe my eyes! Surely I was mistaken, but even as my heart screamed in denial, my brain rationally catalogued and processed the information, drawing me to the inexorable answer. There was only one person in Hogwarts who had hair that shade of silvery-blond, who had that pointed chin and arrogant smirk.

Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy was lying, slender body stretched out atop my best friend's, his hands cupping Ron's face. As I watched I horror, the smirk dissolved from his features, to be replaced with an intensity that I never knew was possible in one like him. He lowered his head towards Ron's, as Ron lifted his arms to twine it around Draco's neck.

I must have gasped, because the next moment Draco's head had snapped up, his silver gaze sharply scanning their surroundings. I froze as our eyes met, unable to move. And the next thing I knew, Ron was in front of me, broken words of explanation and pleading falling from his mouth, begging me not to reveal anything.

I opened my mouth to speak, to demand how could he? How could he do such a thing? Commit such a betrayal? To Gryffindor? To Harry? To me?

But before any accusation could escape my lips, Draco came up behind Ron, casually resting a hand on the other boy's waist. Ron didn't move away. I reluctantly looked up at him, and was chilled by the apparent warning in his icy gaze.

 _Back off,_ it seemed to be saying. _Say anything to hurt him and you will regret it._ His eyes flickered to Ron, acquiring a possessive gleam, making me feel so terribly uneasy. This couldn't have been good, I had to figure out a way to get Ron away from the Slytherin boy, before something really bad happened.

Then the look in Draco's eyes changed, gaining that intensity I'd glimpsed earlier before they realised my intrusion, and in it… I saw… something… I couldn't really pinpoint it, but it _felt_ right, and for once out of a very few times in my life, I went by my gut feeling.

"Help— help me understand, Ron." It was one of the hardest things I ever had to say. Yet it was worth it for the look of relief that poured onto Ron's face, and the luminous smile that followed.

The story came out in stilted words and phrases: how he'd come to brood by the lake, to be discovered by Draco. The taunting and exchange of insults had worn thin, somehow transcending into something more meaningful. I didn't miss how Ron had subtly leaned back against the other boy as he'd spoken, didn't overlook how Draco's hands never left his body, the swift looks from one to the other. Their non-verbals revealed more than Ron's stunted explanation could ever supply.

I couldn't pull Ron away, not when he seemed content to be there. My heart bled, but if that was what made him happy, then I would be the last one to stand in the way.

They stayed together, to graduation and after, managing to keep their relationship under tight wraps. I doubt anyone else knew apart from the four of us. Him, Ron, me. And Harry.

Harry didn't take it as well as I did. The row they had after Harry found out towards the end of our sixth year was so incredibly worse than the one two years ago over Ron's jealousy at Harry's achievements. This time, Harry was the one seething, with wounded betrayal and fear that his best friend in the whole world was abandoning him.

It took Ron taking a curse meant for Harry during that last confrontation with the Dark Lord for Harry to get it through his stubborn skull that Ron still cared for him, still wanted him as a friend. At that time I could have killed him myself for putting Ron through such torture, and I'm pretty sure Draco would have gladly done so. It has just deepened the rift between the two.

Ron never really recovered from that ordeal, I think. Harry's reaction made him fearful of how others would respond if they knew, especially his family. That was the beginning of his drift away from home, something I know hurts them to no end.

Even though my eyes see that Ron doesn't seem well at all, has not appeared well for quite some time, my mind still tricks me, bringing up the illusions of days long past, when happiness and serenity wasn't such a faraway thing from his eyes. And I knew Draco would never harm him, not overtly – Harry had made him swear to that. But fate and circumstance are inexorable, and mercilessly indifferent to the hearts they shatter.

All of a sudden, my heart seems to stop. It's as if the flow of the blood in my arteries and veins has screeched to a halt and reversed its direction.

Ron!

In front of me, Harry jerks as well, causing the Firebolt to dip alarmingly. He recovers, pulling the broomstick back on course.

"Hurry, Harry!" I urge needlessly, but even as I shout the words, I sense the futility of it. _We're too late, aren't we, Harry? We're too late._

We dive down and skid to a halt outside a brownstone building, the Firebolt carelessly left to clatter on the driveway as we rush towards the door. Harry bangs desperately on it, but no one answers. The knob turns when he jiggles it in frustration and we lurch into the house.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harry raise his hand to his forehead, rubbing his scar. Powerful Dark magic must have been wrought here. We both slow our steps as we approach the doorway to their bedroom, somehow dreading what we will see.

Broken glass strewn on the carpet. Strangely, that's the first thing that catches my eye. Then the double bed with its covers of midnight black. On the far side, I can see Draco sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, Ron cradled in his arms. They're both utterly, utterly still. From where I'm standing, I can't see their faces, but inexplicably, I can tell that Ron's eyes are closed.

And they will never ever open again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought he must have felt this numbness before, once upon a time.

* _Harry*_

He thought he must have felt this numbness before, once upon a time.  Maybe when he had still been very young, before he'd realized that spells and magic were not a myth.  The world was so bland – when the numbness had shrouded his heart.  It had felt like he was in a soundproof room, where external noise was muffled and the only thing he could hear clearly was his own voice in his head. 

And it told him not to listen.  To ignore whatever his eyes, ears and skin were telling him.  Don't pay attention to the beatings and cruel words.  Because if you don't really sense the malice, if the pain doesn't truly register, then it might not necessarily be reality. 

In a way, the numbness was his friend.  It was like an invisible cloak, enfolding him within its dulling embrace, deadening his senses to the world, keeping him safe. 

And then he'd made a new friend.  One that was the exact opposite of anything he had ever known.  This friend didn't freeze or anaesthetise him.  Instead, this friend was vibrancy and life.  He stimulated, excited, thrilled.  His every smile, every word, every laugh, every gesture, even his very appearance, was an invitation, an invocation, rousing him from the stuporous trance he had been in ever since he could summon conscious thought. 

The old friend issued an ultimatum: _it's either me or him._   There could be no compromise.  

He didn't give it a second thought. 

At the age of eleven, the Boy Who Lived stopped existing, and truly began to live. 

The numbness abandoned him, but he didn't really care.  Ron was taking him on the ride of his life, and the myriad of experiences and emotions was too intense for him to ever want anything else ever again. 

Except for now. 

Now, he wanted his childhood friend back, with every fibre of his being.  _Come back… come back and make it stop hurting._   And for an instant, it seemed like the protective shield had returned, blocking out the pain.  But then hairline cracks appeared, rapidly spreading, widening, until the dam could not hold it in any longer, and it broke. 

_You had your chance to keep me but you didn't,_ the numbness cackled spitefully in his mind, as he was inundated by the anguish and agony.  _Now you won't have me, or him, forever more…_

Remotely, Harry felt himself slowly moving forwards, eyes fixed on that head of red which seemed to fill his vision.  As he walked, he could hear the sounds of distant traffic from the window ahead, Hermione's gasping sobs from behind, the chafing of the carpet against his boots, and the crunching of glass shards underfoot. 

Everything seemed perfectly clear.  _Too clear_ , he thought wildly, as he reached the nexus of stillness at the far side of the bedroom.  He knelt down heavily beside the pair, ignoring the twinges of pain from the sharp crystal biting his knees through the fabric of his trousers. 

His best friend was draped sideways across his lover's lap, head resting upon Draco's shoulder.  Draco's right arm encircled Ron's waist, while the other hand was interlinked with one of Ron's.  It was a tableau that Harry could recall seeing, so many times: on the grounds at Hogwarts on a soft spring day; during the clear summer nights stargazing at the top of the Astronomy tower; taking a rest after strolling through Hyde Park in the fall; or simply savouring each other's company in front of the fireplace, as snow blanketed the world outside their home in endless white. 

With the memories fresh before his eyes, and Ron's shoulder still warm beneath his trembling fingertips, it felt like one of those bittersweet days, if not for the scar on his forehead throbbing madly away.

Another wave of grief and pain flooded him, sweeping away reason.  Riding upon this crest of irrationality, fury poured from him, accompanied by a spite and vindictiveness he never believed himself capable of, its focus the blond man sitting so utterly still, it would have been hard to tell him from a statue. 

"What did you do to him, Malfoy?  How could you?  You swore that you would never hurt him, that he would be happy and content.  Why on earth did I ever believe you?!  Such as fool, I was, such a bloody fucking fool!!"  He'd began softly, but with every word the emotions seethed, building higher and higher, until he was practically shouting, screaming his rage at the futility of it all. 

Impulsively he grabbed Draco's arm, dislodging it from its hold around Ron, and was rewarded by an angry dart of silver in his direction.  Draco tried to shrug off his grip, but Harry held firm. 

"Let.  Go.  Of.  Me.  Potter."  The sibilant hiss from Draco's lips would have surpassed Snape's even on his worst of days. 

Harry ignored him, pulling him closer so their faces were scant inches apart.  "I should have known better to have trusted a Malfoy, a Slytherin… _Death Eater_!"  The accusations spat out hatefully.  "I hope you rot, Malfoy.  And I hope it's going to be slow, agonising, and endlessly painful.  And when that happens, I shall be there laughing – laughing as the gates of Hell close upon you!" 

Silence initially met his last tirade, bordering upon hysteria, only punctuated by his harsh breathing and the soft sounds of Hermione's grief.  And then Draco shifted abruptly, wrenching his arm away to clutch Ron's body once more.  He looked up, pinning Harry with his eyes. 

Harry couldn't look away, struck by the hollowness he saw in them.  He had seen such eyes before, years ago, when he'd first saw Sirius Black, not realising that he was actually his godfather.  Black's eyes had been just as bleak, as empty.  The eyes of Azkaban. 

"You're wrong, Potter.  What you've described isn't Hell."  Draco's words were slow, calm, and completely toneless.  "I would know, because I'm already in it.  Hell, Potter, is understanding too late what is truly important.  Hell is realising, after years of believing you are strong, that you're nothing but a pathetic, weak-minded fool.  Hell… is never getting to say you're sorry.  And knowing that even if you do say it, a million, billion times, it won't change a single, bloody thing." 

The room was quiet as Draco's voice died away.  Even Hermione had stopped crying.  

Harry slumped again the bed, feeling drained as the fury ebbed from him, leaving nothing but that deep, achingly hollow sadness. 

The red hair in front of him was making him remember too much for him to bear, and even when he closed his eyes, there was no escape.  His life was flashing before his eyes – his life and Ron's. 

He remembered their first meeting at the train station, and their first conversation on the Hogwarts Express, how he'd sided with Ron against his soon-to-be best friend's future lover.  He remembered their adventures through First Year, Second Year, Third… battling mountain trolls and three-headed dogs, basilisks and treacherous rodents.  Through it all, Ron had been resolutely beside him, determined to stick with him, regardless of the harm that came to him as a result. 

He recalled their first fight, or cold war – how Ron's insecurity overcame him, manifesting as jealousy, and the first ugly arguments between them.  He relived the misery he'd went through those few months when Ron was so far from him, and the boundless relief when they'd finally made up.  

There was that heart-stopping moment when he was told that Ron was at the bottom of the lake, and he could be the only one to save him.  He'd understood how essential Ron's existence had become to him at last.  He'd had no idea then, that there was another who felt the same, and could do nothing but stand by in the bleachers, watching his love risk his life for someone else. 

Horror, shock, revulsion, pain, and betrayal gnawed at his gut as the night he discovered Ron and Draco hit him once more full force.  The bitter accusations backing his stubborn unreason, Draco's scathing retorts, Ron's stricken pleas, Hermione's desperate, futile attempts to mediate…  It all filled his head, resonating and amplifying, like a bullet that could never stop ricocheting off steel walls.  And permeating the entire nightmare was the panic, the dread that Ron would leave.  That Ron didn't need him, didn't want him anymore. 

He remembered all those explanations falling upon his deaf ears, the fear of abandonment and rejection so overwhelming it virtually paralysed him from contemplating anything else.  He didn't want to think about Draco Malfoy, about Ron being anywhere near the blond boy in a remotely friendly way, didn't want to dwell on what else they might have been doing. 

He'd almost convinced himself Ron was just curious, restless, experimenting.  And he'd managed to trap his semi-terrified friend against the bedroom wall up in their tower, arms fuelled with mad conviction pinning down those frantically struggling shoulders. 

His heart lurched a little as the memory of how soft Ron's mouth had felt, how his friend's body had stiffened in complete, utter shock.  He'd ran his tongue gently over the outline of Ron's lower lip, before delving into the shock-parted depths.  He'd tasted the unique sweetness that was Ron.  And he'd tasted the fear. 

He had stopped, pulling back.  Ron remained in his grip, trembling slightly as he gazed back at him, a wary, skittish light in his eyes.  Then he'd shoved Harry aside, dashing from the room, not returning until the following afternoon.  

Crashing in defeat upon his bed, Harry had thought he could never feel worse than he had that night. 

He'd recognised his error soon after when he saw the flash of red fling itself into the path of a hex cast by Voldemort during that last confrontation, and Ron's slow topple to the ground after that. 

_You've done so much for me, and I've never really thanked you.  I've never really said them – the words.  And I've never apologised, truly from the bottom of my heart, for being such a bastard to you then._

Harry suddenly found that he could no longer see Ron and Draco clearly, the world before him turning into shimmering saltwater. 

_And through all these years, I've never really accepted what you had with him. On the surface I've stopped objecting, appeared to tolerate it.  But when I'm not with you I would try to deny it, or not think about it, or not see it, if I could help it…  But now I think I could gladly call Malfoy brother, if you would just open your eyes and smile at us again._

He gradually become aware of the fact that his head had fallen against Malfoy's shoulder, and that part of the other man's shirt was soaked with his tears.  Malfoy made no move to push him away. 

_It was your final wish, wasn't it?  For all of us to be together peacefully in the same room.  But how can it possibly be worth it, when we can no longer speak with you, smile with you, laugh and cry with you?  How could you have ever thought it would be worth it?_

_Malfoy's right_ , he thought dully.  _Hell is never getting to say you're sorry._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life’s greatest regrets are when you had the chance right there in the middle of your palm, and you brush it aside so carelessly.

_*Draco*_

I shift restlessly beneath the covers as a faint tapping draws me reluctantly from my sleep.  Groaning, I bury my head beneath the pillow, hoping in vain to bask a few more endless moments in remembered warmth, the scent of spice and rain. 

But the external sounds grow insistent, and the desperate memories fade.  Poking my head from underneath the blankets, I see a familiar-looking owl with snow-white feathers hovering at my window, threatening to break the glass if I don't get up soon enough to let her in. 

I stumble over to lift the pane, and am rewarded by a peck on my hand for my efforts.  Bloody creature!  I glare at it as it settles on the back of my chair, preening its feathers and fixing me with a gaze so insolent I can only recall receiving it from one other person. 

But what else should I have expected?  Like master, like owl. 

Warily, I reach out to untie the message around the bird's leg, ready to hex her if she decides she has to take another nip at me.  But she prudently remains still, probably sensing instinctively that the new-found truce between Potter and I is still too fragile.  Any provocation, even one as slight as a few feathers off the wings of his owl, and it would crumble into dust. 

The hollow feeling that's begun to grow ever since I returned to the land of the waking engulfs me as I scan quickly through the note.  It's from Hermione Granger, unsurprisingly.  Potter still won't talk to me – he hasn't since the day he and Hermione crashed into our house, when Ron had— Since that day. 

I don't really begrudge him for that.  I don't think I'm ready to face anyone just yet, him least of all.  Everything's so finely balanced, and I can practically feel myself poised on that knife's edge. 

I let go of the note, letting it flutter where it may.  The contents are brief and succinct, merely the date, time and location of where the funeral will be taking place.  The thought suddenly tips me over – and I can feel myself descending into an abyss of panic and grief. 

I crawl once more into the shelter of my bed, wrapping the covers tight around me in a pathetic attempt to simulate an embrace that's forever gone.  Stubbornly, I cling to my thoughts of Potter, our long-running feud and my resentment of him, because ironically, it's the only thing that can keep me from drowning in the hysterical anguish that's constantly circling the outskirts of my mind. 

I know it shouldn't be this way, that he— he… 

No.  

I should be strong enough to say his name.  I  _am_ Draco Malfoy, after all. 

Draco Malfoy who loved— _loves_ Ronald Weasley. 

Right, where was I? 

I know it shouldn't be this way, that h— that that was the very reason Ron decided to cast that spell upon himself.  It seems so unjust that he gave up his life for something that may never happen.  

It's just too hard, setting aside my differences with Harry Potter.  Just the thought itself is an effort, the thought of doing anything at all, when he's no longer with me.  

_But the reality…_ a small voice that sounds inexplicably like Ron's makes itself heard over the chaotic turmoil in my brain.  _The reality is that when Ron was with you, it would have been impossible to make peace with Potter.  Because he was the very reason, the ultimate root of all the enmity between the two of you._

I shut my eyes, ignoring the voice, and attempt to sink back into my dreams instead, but instead, I jerk back awake moments later, the horrific image of Ron throwing himself at Voldemort years ago haunting in its intensity. 

Damnit!  Even in my dreams, he has to come between us.  And I resent him for it.  

I resent that apart from myself, there's another who had such a great hold on Ron as well.  Enough that he would not give a thought to his own life, if giving it up could save theirs. 

And in return, I'm fully aware that he's never forgiven me for 'taking' Ron away from him.  What he doesn't seem to realise, the prat, is that I never took anything.  Ron came to me, just as I went to him, because there was actually, no other way.  No other way for it to be so perfect, if we were not together. 

Yet I would be a saint if I don't admit that there was a perverse sense of satisfaction at seeing Potter for once helpless in his rage, finally coming up against a wall he could not breach.  That is, until I saw how much it was tearing my lover apart, that Harry Potter would not accept, or even try to understand, what was going on between us. 

The worst night of my life, or what used to be the worst night of my life, was the night they brought Ron back after the fight with the Dark Lord.  It was the closest I ever came to hating the fact that I was a Slytherin, son of a Death Eater, destined to follow in my father's footsteps. 

Seeing him lying there in the sick bay was one of those moments.  One of those times when you're on the verge of a decision so crucial it would affect you and the ones around you for the rest of your life.  I remember wondering how I could ever bear it, if something like that happened again, only the next time it would be because of me.  And I thought then, that maybe it would be worth it, worth disappointing my father and incurring his wrath, to defy him and take another path, as long as Ron was going to be there with me. 

Life's greatest regrets are when you had the chance right there in the middle of your palm, and you brush it aside so carelessly. 

Just as I was standing there wracked with my indecisions, he appeared from behind a curtain, followed by Madam Pomfrey.  He looked barely marked, just a couple of bruises and scratches. 

And I knew I really, really hated him. 

My pride reasserted itself, and that moment of epiphany was over, for all the good it did me… 

Somehow, I've managed to make it into the bathroom, and as I stare at my hollow reflection, an insidious thought creeps its way inside, asking me how much longer I want to blame Potter for all that has passed.  Am I truly so weak, that I can be so easily swayed? 

For an incredible instant, I seem to glimpse another image in the mirror behind me.  He comes up behind the image that's me, arms going around my image's waist.  Then he rests his chin on mirror-Draco's shoulder, and looks up at me.  I see the trust, and the belief, that's in his eyes. 

The tears begin to fall for the first time since the day he died. 

I shall go to the funeral. 

I shall face my ex-nemesis. 

And after that…


End file.
